


Don't Tell Me That We're Not the Same

by Dragonie



Series: Rain in the Desert [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Post-Game(s), Slight Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonie/pseuds/Dragonie
Summary: From Goodsprings to the Dam, Jane must have fought hundreds of Legionaries in her day. This patrol should be no different, she thinks.Operative word being "thinks."(Post-Game NCR Courier, background Courier/Ulysses)





	Don't Tell Me That We're Not the Same

                Jane crows triumphantly as her bullet finds its mark, the Decanus’ head snapping back in a spray of scarlet. The recruit, now the last remaining member of his _contubernium_ — Ulysses grants her the knowing of these Legion words, the dead language flowing like a stream from his lips — gives his cowboy repeater a couple of frustrated whacks as his leader’s body collapses into the sand. The thing’s jammed on him; poor weapon maintenance, perhaps, sort Graham wouldn’t have stood for.

                Legion hadn’t left the Mojave clean. Caesar, Lanius, Lucius… Jane had cut the head off the Bull in her path of destruction through their ranks, and now the beast staggered in its death throes, lurching wildly without orders, without a firm hand to guide it. Legion had always relied on a tight command structure, common soldiers taught to obey more than think, and with every man knowing who stood behind him, holding his leash. But now the only heirs to Caesar’s throne were far away across the sands, and the men on this side of the Colorado floundered with no leaders to choose their path. Even now, some remained; stragglers whose retreat was cut off as the NCR filled out into its new borders, zealots with heads stuffed full of Caesar’s credo and the ache to fight the Profligate until the bitter end. Couldn’t tell which it was for this sorry little warband; with her history, even a fleeing man might attack on sight. She supposes it won’t matter for much longer, anyway.

                The recruit tosses his rifle aside in disgust, and Jane takes the chance to hang back and reload. He draws the machete at his hip and makes a clumsy lunge at Ulysses, who blocks the slash with almost lazy ease. The other courier follows through by slamming the butt of Old Glory down into the recruit’s knee, connecting with a sickening crack. The unfortunate Legionary drops with a strangled cry of pain, injured leg giving out under him. Ulysses kicks him in the chest, sending him sprawling, back hitting the dirt.

                Jane chances a look at Ulysses’ face, sees dispassionate eyes above the mask. She’s never been totally sure how comfortable he is, fighting his former comrades; has avoided testing this as much as she can, giving the stragglers a wide berth when possible. Still, he shows no hesitation in defending himself, or her, from their attacks; call it a hypocrisy, no doubt, for Legion to object.

                She approaches the fallen recruit warily, gun in hand; Ulysses draws back silently, leaving the man’s fate to her. He’s even less intimidating close up, all gangly limbs and knobby knees, padded armour an ill fit over his skinny frame. He scrabbles for his dropped machete as he sees her near, so she cracks the stock of her rifle against his head, kicks the blade away by the handle as he reels, a trickle of blood oozing its way down his face and staining his bandana.

                “So,” she says, her mild tone belied by the meaningful hefting of her weapon. “This is the part where you tell us if there’s any more of you Roman bastards hangin’ about these parts.”

                He replies with a string of furious… somethings, the words muffled by the cloth around his mouth; she reaches down to yank the thing off and toss it aside. His face looks younger than she’d expected, clean-shaven and unscarred. She shouldn’t be surprised, really; from what she’s heard, Legion will send a boy to war the moment he’s big enough to hold a weapon, and sometimes won’t even wait until then.

                “—tell _nothing_ to the Whore of the West—”

                “‘Whore of the West’?” Jane’s face splits into a lopsided smirk. “ _That_ what you Legion boys’re callin’ me? Come on, kid, I kill two of your Caesars an’ that’s the best you can come up with?”

                The young man disregards this, turns his head to Ulysses instead. Can’t see his eyes past the darkened goggles, but his head’s tilted towards the eagle tip of Old Glory.

                “—And you, _traitor_ ,” he snarls. “Has she seduced you away from your duty, or did you beg the Profligates to take you into their ranks?”

                Jane looks from one to the other — the indignant recruit, the nonplussed Ulysses — and bursts out laughing.

                “Oh, yeah,” she snickers. “I used my womanly wiles on him, all right.”

                Ulysses snorts, and looks down at the fallen soldier.

                “Bull’s way couldn’t last,” he says, his voice tinged with his own unique blend of melancholy and irritation. “Even while Caesar lived, saw that. Victory at the Dam would’ve slowed the poison, not stopped it; fall apart eventually. See it for yourself, live long enough.”

                The recruit’s jaw sets hard, stubborn, but he makes no further argument; Jane puts it down more to lack of debating skills than to actually being convinced by Ulysses’ words. She eyes the man curiously.

                “Someone you know?” she asks Ulysses. “Had you pegged as ex-Legion.”

                “Hn,” Ulysses shakes his head thoughtfully. “No face I recognise. Heard of me, maybe, knew me from the symbols I bear.”

                “You an’ your symbols.” She grins at him, then gives the fallen Legionary a nod. “What’s your name, kid?”

                “What use have you for my name?” The recruit grits his teeth against the pain of his leg. “Slay me and be done with it, woman!”

                “Humour me.” Not really sure why she’s asking herself; just stalling for time, maybe. Tell the truth, she’s got no idea what she’s going to do with the guy. If he’d been able to stand, she might’ve given him what he asked for. Let him take up his machete and die fighting; hell, Ulysses’d probably even approve. But she’d never been so comfortable killing a man on the ground even _before_ Goodsprings, and now the thought alone brings up ugly memories of chequered suits and cigarette smoke, pain lancing through her temple and choking dirt all around…

                Could try to get word to the troopers, somehow, let them take him in? Field prisons were getting pretty full these days, though, and if he’s the “death before capture” type they’ll probably end up shooting him anyway, and get pissed at her for bothering them.

                _Damn it, Ulysses, woulda made things a whole lot easier if you’d just gone for the kill._

The recruit glares at her a while longer (can’t really _see_ his glare, not under the goggles, but she knows it’s there; can feel the impotent anger radiating off him in waves) before acquiescing.

                “I am Mettius, soldier of Caesar, _contubernalis_ under—” He cuts off with a glance at the body of his fallen commander, stares at it a bit before correcting himself. “— _Was contubernalis_ under Vibius of Two Sun.”

                “Pretty fancy way of sayin’ ‘grunt’.” She taps his helmet with the barrel of her gun; he scowls and tries to swat it away. “How ugly you gotta be, they make you hide your face all the time?”

                “How much more of your _taunting_ must I endure, woman?” Mettius snarls, tugs off the helmet and goggles. “By Mars, I would almost beg for death to be away from you!”

                Jane freezes, the smile dying on her lips.

                She knows she shouldn’t recognise that face, not after all these years, can’t be _sure_ it’s him, but… Couldn’t forget those dark eyes. Come from memories crisp and clear as paintings, despite their age, like she’s kept them safe and spotless in her head, treasured them more than Madre gold.

                “No…”

                She takes a step back, as if the movement will dispel whatever filthy illusion she’s seeing. It doesn’t work. Her gun hangs limp in her hands, all vigour dried up like water in the desert. Dimly, she registers movement out the corner of her eye — Ulysses cocking his head to the side, watching her, eyebrows raised in surprise — but her attention’s so focused on the man in front of her that she barely even notices.

                “…Rising Waters?”

                Her voice sounds weak even to her own ears. ‘Mettius’ squints up at her, brow furrowing.

                “What?”

                “It’s me, Waters,” Jane pleads. She steps towards him, lets the rifle dangle loosely in one hand. “It’s your sister, Gentle Rain. Don’t you recognise me?”

                “What madness are you speaking, woman?” He eyes her warily from the ground, as if she might leap upon him and tear his throat out in this fit of lunacy.

                “Do see some likeness,” Ulysses’ voice reaches her ear, slow and thoughtful. “Echo of you in his features… if not in his skill,” he adds scathingly.

                “You _believe_ her ravings, traitor?” Mettius stares at the two of them, face an ugly mix of indignation and incredulity. “I am kin to no Profligate, especially not one so degenerate as _she_.” He practically spits the words at her, lips drawn back in a borderline snarl, and it _ain’t right_ to see those familiar eyes on a face so twisted in contempt, on a body clad in that ugly crimson. “I know nothing of Twin Mothers but that they were a weak tribe, rightfully brought under our heel.”

                Jane stops in her tracks and _stares_ at him, knuckles turning white as shaky fingers clench around her rifle. Couldn’t have stunned her more if he’d struck her; would’ve hurt less, to boot. She hears the sharp intake of breath cut the still air, can’t tell whether it comes from herself or Ulysses; body feels like it belongs to another person, numb and _wrong_. Been anyone else, she wouldn’t even have hesitated. Be up in their faces by now, grabbing them by the shirtfront, or else have them in the ironsights, _daring_ them to say that again. But this isn’t just anyone; it’s _Waters_ … isn’t it?

                “What have they _done_ to you, Waters?” She can’t keep the horror from her voice, now; whole thing feels like some sick fucking joke. Should’ve known that Legion would get in some final twist of the knife before they fell; couldn’t just fucking _die_ already… “Made you forget your _people_.” She takes another step towards him, sand and grit crunching beneath her boots, eyes fixed on his face “Made you into one of _them_.”

                “I tell you, Profligate—” he scoots back on the dusty ground as she advances, leg dragging along uselessly, trail of blood down his face from a split eyebrow dried to tacky in the scorching sun “—I am a son of Caesar, no tribesman of yours!” He looks to Ulysses, as if pleading with the other man to intervene and rescue him from this madwoman. Ulysses eyes him evenly.

                “Don’t know your own history, Bull would be in no hurry to remind you of it,” he says, “know this as well as I. Caesar has no need for divided loyalties in those who serve him.”

                Mettius stares at Ulysses in stubborn disbelief, starts when Jane lands a boot on his good leg, pinning him in place. She looks down at him — her own brother, taken and moulded in the image of her worst enemy, no memory left of her or any other of the Mothers; now nothing but a wounded straggler, planning to throw his life away in the service of a dying nation, the command of a dead warlord who took everything away from them without him even knowing.

                “You ain’t ever gonna believe a thing I say, are you?” Jane says mournfully.

                The recruit swallows hard, glancing at the rifle in her hands — one thing to _say_ you don’t fear death, Jane thinks, quite another to look it in the eyes and not flinch. He offers up no tirade in return, no furious denials. Perhaps he feels the uncomfortable weight of truth in her words, perhaps he thinks her so beyond reason that any further argument is useless. Jane is equally silent, her gaze unblinking as she takes in his bloodied face, his tattered tunic as she stands over him.

                Finally, she gives a single, curt nod, and looks away.

                “Legion’s gonna burn, Waters,” she says, and her voice sounds tired, sounds small and lonely as it floats on the wind out past the dunes. “One way or another. Ulysses got it right on the money. It’ll eat itself if NCR don’t get it first.” She reaches inside her jacket, fingers searching instinctively for that inner pocket.

                Mettius winces in surprise as a fistful of Stimpaks drops onto his chest. He gingerly picks one up, twists it between his fingers as if to check that it’s real, before gaping up at her.

                “Fix up your leg and run.” Jane’s mouth is a hard line, her voice quiet. “Not back to Flagstaff, and not on some suicide dash to McCarran. Just get the hell out of here. Find some new clothes and go work in the mines at Redding, head out into Utah and join up with one of the tribes, I don’t care. Get _away_ from all of this, an’ maybe someday, if you ever want to find out who you really are, you come find me. Okay? Go!”

               The Legionary nods mutely at her, so she takes her foot off of him, moves a few paces back to give him some space. He watches her cautiously, as if he can’t quite believe the offer, before seizing one of the Stimpaks and jabbing it into his broken leg, eyes flickering constantly back to her. Satisfied that she’s keeping her distance, he scrambles for the remaining Stimpaks, hastily fixing up his leg and clambering onto unsteady feet.

                For a while, he stares at her, and she stares back, and it seems as if he might go for his machete again, and force their hands. But finally, finally, he gives her a nod, barely a tilt of the head, and Waters turns tail and runs away.

                She watches him as he goes, watches his figure shrink and shrink over the dunes until finally he disappears into the sands. Her gun clatters as it drops onto the ground, slipping from fingers that no longer have the strength to hold it.

                She feels, more than sees, Ulysses draw beside her, feels rough fingers reach out awkwardly to brush a cheek that’s wet with tears. His hand falls to her shoulder and there’s comfort in that, the weight of it keeping her anchored. She doesn’t have to say anything, to explain her feelings; she knows he understands all too well. He’s one of the few who would, and in this moment she’s grateful for that.

                “Should feel happier, knowin’ I’ve got kin left breathin’,” she says after a time, still staring out over the horizon. “But it don’t feel right, y’know? Like… he’s blood, but he ain’t _tribe_.” Jane takes a deep breath, and looks at Ulysses. “It ain’t the same thing.”

                Oh, yes, he understands; she can see that from the weariness in his eyes, the pensive furrow of his brow. His hand lingers on her shoulder. He’s never been the most adept at comforting words, but she doesn’t mind, somehow; she can see the feelings behind it, and they mean a lot. She twists her mouth into a smile, as if that would somehow dry her eyes to match.

                “Guess I really am the last of the Mothers after all, huh?” she continues. Tries to force a laugh into it, voice just ends up cracking instead.

                A span of several heartbeats passes, and then—

                “Won’t be forever.” Ulysses’ voice is low enough that for a moment she thinks she might have misheard him. He cocks his head at the surprised look on her face. “Mean to rebuild, even brought me out of the Divide… Will have your tribe again, Gentle Rain.”

                Jane stares at him in shock for a second or two before her face scrunches up, the tears flowing strong again through choking sobs. She grabs Ulysses, buries her face in the worn fabric of his shirt, feels his arms come slowly around her, nestles against the comforting warmth of his chest and lets the shock and the sorrow and the anger and the pain flow out into the hot dry air.


End file.
